Never Forever
by Catheryne
Summary: Damon and Blair begin recalling a past that neither of them knew. While Blair struggles with the mystery, Damon needs to find out how it was that he remembered nothing.
1. Chapter 1

I haven't been able to update my stories for some time because my laptop conked out. So welcome to my brand new laptop. While I try to catch up and refresh on my ongoing fics, here's a different pairing – I've wanted to do this pairing for some time now.

**Never Forever**

Gossip Girl/The Vampire Diaries

Blair/Damon

Summary: Damon and Blair begin recalling a past that neither of them knew. While Blair struggles with the mystery, Damon needs to find out how it was that he remembered nothing.

**Part 1**

"Damon, Damon!" the voice of the girl was strange—he could not quite place it so easily in the haze—yet familiar at the same time. It was the lilt in her voice, charming and raising at the end. Her voice echoed as if she were calling through corridors and the notes bounced from high ceilings. There was some laughter in her voice, laughter it seemed and some happiness as his name fell from her tongue. "Damon, where are you?"

It was dark, and he found himself racing through lush corridors he did not remember. He turned a corner and spotted a green skirt turning the corridor.

"Damon," came the cheerful call, "stop chasing me."

And still she called his name. And from his own throat the unfamiliar chuckle burst. He was—he stopped in his tracks and grabbed the wall for a second. Damon placed a hand right there on his chest, to the left side, where his heart used to pump. It constricted now, as if he was alive yet and blood rushed to it.

Strange dreams, he thought to himself. There was a reason he had not slept much of these almost century and a half since he turned. Strange dreams haunted him and when he woke he could not remember, and he always grasped at tenuous strands of a life that was not real.

And then he was running again, running after that blasted green skirt. There was a hint of dark hair as he closed the gap and she turned quickly like some nimble little rabbit. She giggled, and he shook his head. It was the most wonderful, titillating sound he had heard in two centuries.

In the dream he knew he was a vampire, and he wondered if the chase was just that. A predator and his prey. Damon sped fast and his dried up husk of a heart skipped and tightened when he caught up to her and his arms wrapped around her waist, the fragrance from her hair assailed his senses.

He would devour her, like the vampire he was, like the beast he had become since Stefan forced his turning. His head lowered and he found his eyes shut close. Damon waited in the dream to feel the intense satisfaction of fresh hot blood pulse into his mouth, coat his tongue and his teeth and the inner walls of his mouth.

Instead he felt the cool tip of his nose tease the hot pulse behind her ear, that one spot where blood rushed and where one nick would send life spilling into his throat. And then, without malice, his lips puckered slightly as he dropped kisses on kisses over her skin.

"Damon," she sighed, and she sounded nothing like Katherine, felt nothing like her, and she turned around and looked up at him with brown eyes and red lips and she appeared nothing like Katherine.

And in all his life, he never loved anyone but Katherine. But here she was, this girl in his dream, and he suffocated in emotion so much that he would expire if only he was someone who needed to breathe.

"You caught me," she said, with a smile, and a tone that told him she truly cared not that she had lost the chase.

"Of course I did. You know you wanted to be caught," he said, and he imagined his eyes twinkled at the taunt in his voice.

She raised her arms and hooked her wrists at his nape. Any other woman he would have quickly turned and pierced the thin skin to expose the veins there and he would drink until he was sated. Instead he turned his head and kissed the smooth skin of her arm. She tugged and pulled and he lowered his head even though his strength was enough to resist.

Damon looked down at the parted lips and thought for sure that it did not matter that vampires never went to heaven, because when his lips closed over her and her tongue playfully teased his, he knew heaven would pale compared to her kiss.

"I love you, Damon."

He swore he would find her, if only to taste heaven for just a second more. "I love you more," he professed, the words sliding easily from his lips.

"It's all right, Damon. Didn't you say," she whispered softly, and with his gaze focused on her mouth he saw the tiny bit of smile she forced to curve on her lips, "you don't know how to love."

He said it again, firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument. "I love you."

And the thin smile warmed, and he was a pathetic lovesick fool to be so relieved to see its change. "I do adore your blue eyes," she told him, and so he moved his gaze from her lips to the deep dark eyes that looked up at him with adoration. "It is like looking at the sky without hurting my eyes."

At that, he smirked, because that was easy. She was easy to please. It was easy to please someone who loved you, he realized. Katherine had always been such a bitch to satisfy. And suddenly, in her eyes, Damon felt like he were the most powerful man, the most desirable, the most important. To her she was not a mere obstacle to accept because he was part and parcel of Stefan.

He tightened his arms around her waist and with a burst of speed took her out into the night in the deserted farm. "Look up," he told her.

And in the darkness, by the sliver of moonlight, he watched as she looked up at the sky, baring her neck to him, fully trusting. She gasped, then swallowed, and he observed in fascination how the muscles moved under her skin. He thought her blood would be sweet, sweeter than anyone else he had ever tasted. Certainly sweeter than Katherine's spiteful blood. And Damon pressed a kiss on the long, bare neck.

"It's night out," she reminded him. "Not the blue of your eyes."

And when she met his eyes he grinned and declared with vanity, "Nothing is like the blue of my eyes."

"Sometimes they're like fire. I swear, I'll remember your eyes until the day I die," she said.

"I'm already dead," he reminded her, and despite the comfort with which she leaned towards him he could hear still the skip of her heart and the way her pulse raced at the thought, "and your scent will be in my head every night for eternity, just like this."

"Eternity is a long time, Damon," she told him. "You should not make promises you cannot keep."

And he pulled her towards him, then kissed her forehead. "I swear. Believe me." He closed his eyes and breathed unnecessarily. He burned the scent into his brain. "That's you," he whispered.

**2010**

The flight in from Paris seemed longer than usual, and her muscles ached from sitting too long. Blair Waldorf removed her earrings as she walked into the room. She placed the accessories on the table and then, while holding on to the back of a chair, kicked off her shoes. The high heeled sandals clattered on the floor and she massaged one aching foot.

Her mother advised her to wear travel suitable clothing and she just did not listen. After all, what was a certain amount of pain in exchange of looking entirely fabulous during the trip? One never knew who might be sitting next to you in a crowded plane. In her case it was Serena sleeping off a late night clubbing. Still, the prince of her dreams could be sitting right across the aisle. You never knew.

She pulled off her coat and started unbuttoning her dress. Blair let the dress pool to the floor.

She walked towards the vanity and opened her jewelry drawer. Her eyes landed on the diamond necklace that had been so special to her these past years. She touched the metal, cold and unyielding, then shook her head. There was a time for everything, and this was not the time to reminisce about failure.

She felt the cool air stream into the room. She glanced at the window and was surprised to find it open. Perhaps Dorota had already been by and prepared the room for her. The curtains danced in the breeze. Her skin prickled. She turned again to the mirror and jumped. There was a silhouette reflected in the mirror. Before she could scream or grab the phone, the man stepped forward and Blair bit back a sob when she saw his face.

"Who are you?" she choked out the demand.

His lips curved. "I think you know who I am."

She shook her head furiously. "Stay right there or I'm going to call the police."

His eyebrows shot up, and she realized that there was no way for her to do much anything than scream. Her heart sank. He held up the phone and raised his other hand. He stepped forward and offered it to her. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"Then what are you doing here? You're trespassing."

"Maybe I just wanted to see you and know that you're real," he answered. He was standing so close to her. She looked up and saw the light humor in his eyes and he held up the phone, that slight smirk on his lips. He must not plan to kill her. She doubted anyone could look so happy when plotting a kill. She relaxed a little and found it odd that he seemed to know exactly when her heart slowed. She held her breath when he ran his hand down her bare arm. She froze when he moved his face closer until his nose teased her hair. And he breathed deep and long. "That's you," he whispered.

"You're scaring me," she said.

"There's no reason to be scared," he said softly, his voice soft, his lips near enough that they touched her ear. "I'm never going to hurt you." And this time, so gently, whisper-like, the sensation of his lips on her cheek was something like a dream. "Never again." Again, he held up the phone.

Blair snatched it from his hand and stumbled backwards. She turned around and with trembling fingers punched the emergency number. The line rang once and she heard the answer, "911. What's your emergency?"

"There's an intruder in my room," she gasped. When she turned around, the room was empty, the door shut and the window half-open still. "He's gone now," she breathed in relief. Blair gave her details to the person on the line for the police.

Not thirty minutes later two officers stood in her living room. She detailed the moment she arrived up to the moment she called for assistance. They wanted to see her room, and when she was reluctant the older officer was courteous enough to allow her to stay. The elevator bell rang and she jumped. Blair looked towards the opening doors that revealed her best friend. Serena clutched her bag to her chest and ran towards her. She felt herself enveloped by the relative security of her Serena's embrace.

"B, we were so worried when we heard."

We.

Blair looked up and noticed the two new arrivals who had been standing behind Serena. She wondered if she should feel relieved that despite all the differences among them Chuck and Nate still made their way to her when they learned the news.

"Where's the police?" came Chuck's quiet question.

"Upstairs," she answered, her chin thrust up. His eyes moved up and down her body and she felt bare. She pulled her robe tighter around her body.

Then Nate asked the more appropriate question. She always trusted him to be level headed. "Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Did he hurt you?"

_I'm never going to hurt you. Never again._

"No," she answered. "He didn't hurt me."

"What did he do?" Chuck demanded.

"Nothing," she replied, and even to her own ears the answer seemed improbable. "He said he wanted to see me."

The officers climbed down the steps, and Nate looked towards them and asked, "Did you find anything?"

"No. Miss Waldorf, the entire apartment is secure. We have guards posted at the lobby now. We're going to run through the security tapes to figure out how he got in."

She wondered how loud of a laugh she would get if she claimed that the man entered and exited through her bedroom window, the bedroom window of a penthouse apartment.

"You do that," Nate replied.

The officer looked down at his notes. "You said he looked like he was in his early twenties, about six feet tall, dark hair and eyes."

Blair shook her head. "Blue eyes. Light. Like the sky." She felt their eyes on her as she said the words.

"Well, meanwhile, we're going to look at the tapes to see if there's anyone by that description that entered the building." The officer cleared his throat. "Would you like us to post a guard in the apartment, Miss Waldorf?"

"The guard at the lobby is enough," she said. She did not know why, but she was certain that she was going to be safe. "I just want to get some sleep."

"We're staying with you," Serena declared.

Blair would have protested, but this was how they operated. No matter the issues, no matter the problem, not even when they were fit to kill each other with their anger, the four of them stayed together in a crisis. Although of course the crisis was most often Serena's.

"I'm staying in my mom's room. You can stay with me," Blair told her best friend.

Chuck nodded, then said, "I'll stay in yours. I'm familiar with it anyway. When your friendly visitor comes to check up on you again, he can talk to Nate and me."

Blair and Serena made their way to her mother's room. Blair crawled into bed in her exhaustion. Oddly enough, for the night's trauma, she slipped easily into sleep. From the periphery of her consciousness she noticed Serena moving around the room.

And then he was all over her. He was all she could breathe, all she could feel. She opened her eyes and found herself looking straight into light blue eyes. He smiled down at her, and in the dream it seemed that she recognized him. He was beautiful, so beautiful she could cry, more beautiful because it felt like a hundred years since she touched him.

She cupped his face in her hands and felt the slight wetness of his cheeks. Her eyes narrowed and she said in her firm voice, "You are not supposed to do this."

"Why not?" he replied.

"We agreed, Damon," she said, his name spilling smoothly from her tongue. Her thumbs traced under his eyes. "You are the loveliest man."

He grunted, then leaned close to her. "I'm not a man," he reminded her. He whispered into her ear, "I love you, more than I thought I was capable of loving anyone. I love you."

And she felt it, hard between her ribs. She turned her head and looked around. The party around her was at its peak, loud and busy. She turned to look at him as his hold around her tightened. "Will you be fine?"

"You don't worry about me," he said. His smile was grim and he continued, "If we had the chance I can take care of you forever."

But they did not so she stared deep into those beautiful eyes. Eyes she would never forget. "I love you so much, Damon." She closed her hands around his fist.

"Close your eyes," he said.

"No. I want to see you."

He swallowed, then nodded. And then, he gritted his teeth. Blair cried out at the indescribable pain. She kept her gaze on him and again his eyes filled. She gasped and choked. She looked down at where blood blossomed on her gown, right where his fist thrust the sharp wood. Her vision darkened and she looked back up at his blank face.

She shot up on the bed, gasping and choking and sobbing out loud. The room was pitch black and she thought there was a shadow in the corner, cast by the sliver of light from the bathroom. She looked up at him and said in accusation, "You killed me."

"How are you alive?" he asked. When he stepped forward, she moved back, away from him. She thought she saw a flash of hurt on his face.

The door of the bathroom opened and Serena rushed out in a towel. "Blair, are you okay? I heard you."

Blair looked over Serena's shoulder and just like that he was gone once more, soundlessly, quickly. Damon. That was what she had called him. "It was a nightmare, just a nightmare." She turned towards the window and watched the fluttering curtains.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **Thank you for the show of support.

**Part 2**

**A few months ago**

He was choking on the bruising grip. The woman on top of him was slight, and remember how utterly pliant she had been under him. When she wished to be. When she allowed it. But now she was angry and she wanted him to hurt. Bitch. He could not believe that this was the same doe-eyed girl who had him wrapped around her little finger. This was the woman he had spent more than a hundred years trying to save. He could no longer count the number of lives he wasted in pursuit of a way to rescue her. Damon grabbed Katherine's wrist as he pulled her hand away, but she did not budge. She was strong, and it meant only one thing. No matter how many humans he had fed on his number still did not compare to Katherine's.

When she realized that Damon was at the peak of his strength, and still could not do damage, Katherine grinned.

"When you turned I thought it would be difficult to get rid of you. I should have realized you're still a weakling, like the yellow-bellied coward you were when you abandoned your service."

He hissed, grunted. "If you kill me-"

"If?" she replied in amusement.

He tightened his hand around her wrist and pulled. "How will you explain—" he spat. "To Stefan?"

Only then did her hold loosen for a fraction of a second, and it was enough to push her away and to the wall. Damon crouched low on the floor as he waited for Katherine to pounce. Katherine replied, "Who kills a vampire by choking him to death anyway?"

He relaxed his tense muscles. "I didn't run because I was a coward. I left because I wasn't going to continue killing."

She bared her teeth and laughed, and Damon realized the irony of his statement. "Much good it did you." She stood, elegant still despite the destruction that surrounded her. "I could have killed you in a split second."

"Why would you even want to?" he demanded. "You were the only woman I ever—"

She glared at him, and the look made him. "I thought you were going to continue the insulting lie. Lucky for you that you didn't."

"What lie?" he demanded. All the woman ever did was hurt him. Always he was the second choice when she was the only one for him. He was not like Stefan. Even now, he still remembered the feeling and he had been all hers.

"That fantasy in your head," Katherine drawled. "The way you claim that I was the love of your life," she recounted. "That's a lie and you know it. So don't be so offended that I didn't come back earlier."

"Anna said you didn't care."

"1983?" Katherine threw back at him. "I didn't care then. I would be stupid if I ran after you for more than one hundred years, Damon."

"I did. Chased after you since the day they took you."

"I was going to have both of you or none at all. Try a hundred years before that."

His head was pounding. Clearly, he did not understand the lies she spouted now. "What?" was the only answer he was able to throw back.

It was then that her face changed, and the anger vanished from her expression. Instead there was a mild curiosity in her eyes, and she cocked her head as she regarded him. "You don't remember," she murmured.

"Remember what?"

Her lips parted. "1883," she mumbled. And then Katherine walked around him as if he were some curiosity on display. "You don't remember her."

"You were the only one," he insisted.

She grinned, relishing a newly discovered advantage. "New York," she offered again, this time as generous as she would become.

"Did we see each other then?"

She shook her head. "I stayed away, but I watched you, Damon." Her face crumpled in disgust. "And I was not going to be part of that sickening weakness you showed." Katherine's arms folded across her chest. "I fell out of love with you then."

"You never loved me. You wanted to use me," was his defense.

"Believe what you will," she answered proudly.

"What happened in New York, Katherine? Who do I not remember?"

She looked at him with amusement. "Oh my, you really have no memory of it." Katherine narrowed her eyes. "Well there are only a few people who were there then and who are here now. Why don't you ask your brother?"

"Stefan knows," he stated, matter of fact.

Katherine shrugged. "Stefan probably is the reason you don't remember." And then, Katherine smiled—and it was not innocence, not happiness. "Meanwhile, maybe I should go and pay a visit. I hear New York is lovely this time of year."

He lunged towards her, but she was way older than he and she was gone before he could move. Damon touched the rapidly healing soreness around his throat. He took his phone from his pocket and dialed his brother's number.

The minute that Stefan answered, Damon cut in, "New York. 1883."

The words were simple. There was no demand, no question. And still, Stefan replied, "Where are you?"

"Home."

"I'll be there in a few minutes. This is one of those things best discussed in person."

**1883**

Damon eyed his brother over the flute of champagne, snarling at Stefan the moment their eyes met. Stefan leaned forward and muttered, "You might want to look less like a boy whose favorite toy was taken away."

"You did far worse and you know it."

"It's been twenty years, Damon." Stefan took a glass and drank from it. "You would think you did not spend the last ten of them bedding maids and whores."

But no one would compare to Katherine. Damon knew it. Stefan knew it.

"I can survive on my own. I'm telling you. We need to part ways, Stefan."

His brother and his sentimental idea of family. "We need to stay together," Stefan told him. And then he used the one weakness he had, and said, "This is what Katherine wanted."

Damon turned to the staircase as the music started. It would be a long eternity if he had to stay with someone he detested as much as he loathed Stefan. As many differences as they had, they agreed at least on this one thing. They needed funds now, needed to have new identities. They could not be prowling like animals, waiting for a hunt and living off abandoned buildings. Vampires existed in the world and many could easily pretend to be human. Twenty years and an entirely new city later, and they might have a chance to establish themselves once again.

They heard that despite the ravages in many parts of the land, Manhattan still maintained the old colonial tradition of the debutante balls. To be honest, these were easy pickings for either of them. They had come up with the con in England when they sailed as they toured, right after they turned. They quite enjoyed the activity. Dozens of dissatisfied young women, ripe and fresh cherries ready for picking. There was nothing quite as heady as virgin blood, and they had plenty without needing to compel one.

The presentation began, and the long parade of young women was a treat to the eyes. Damon sat back in his seat while Stefan inspected each of the women with curious intensity. To Manhattan they were well-bred gentlemen who were sent to study in Europe only to return to a crumbled estate. That said it all—lineage and blood was stellar, but their purses were empty. As Stefan picked the women who would be setting them up quite nicely in the city, Damon felt the back of his neck prickle.

He knew enough about his senses to note that he was being watched.

Damon slowly turned his head and saw the girl standing on the second floor, holding on to the railing before her, watching him. He knew the exact moment she saw that he found her, and his lips curved when he did not turn her eyes away.

"No one can compare to your instincts for survival, brother, nor to your fine taste."

Damon slowly turned and noticed Stefan looking up at the girl. He knew. He was there. He saw her and knew her.

"That's the Waldorf heiress, I hear," offered Stefan.

"She is not going to be presented?"

And then another voice said, "The purpose of the debutante balls is two-fold. One is to flaunt your family's wealth so that anyone who can see the gowns, the jewelry, the breeding of the young woman can see how rich the family is. Another is to present the girls in such a way that she may find a man to marry. Neither of which she needs."

Damon was loath to turn around to face the new arrival. He enjoyed so much to look at her, and he loved that she did not turn away or avert her eyes. Stefan cleared his throat. Damon turned reluctantly to the man who joined them. "She has no need?" he prompted.

"Well, you are sitting in the Waldorf hotel, so anywhere you look is a display of her wealth. And I am her fiancé." The man raised a hand and nodded towards the girl, who nodded back. "Vanderbilt."

Therein lies the rub.

"Salvatore," Stefan answered. "My name is Stefan and this is my brother Damon."

"Pleased to meet you. They say you were studying in Europe when it happened."

"We lost it all," Damon stated somberly.

"You are humble. You did not lose it all. They say you are a doctor, at the top of your class."

Damon should congratulate his brother on again another surprising set up. Stefan must have spent most of the night planting tidbits of information about their so-called past.

"I would like to speak with you tomorrow." He glanced up. "I have need of your services. Do you have a place to stay?"

"Not just yet."

"Then please. Take a room for each of you."

"That is generous," answered Stefan, "and a generosity we will not refuse."

When Vanderbilt left, Damon faced Stefan and asked, "A doctor?"

"It is the easiest way to find blood, the best reason that people might be found dead around us," Stefan answered. Stefan slapped his brother on his back. "Come, Damon. Brighten up. You have a job, one that pays."

Stefan, in his infinite wisdom, had a rather stellar point. Damon learned to hand it to his brother. After all, in the past twenty years that Damon had been rather careless in his grief, Stefan in his guilt had carried to weight to keep them together and, for lack of a better term, alive. Damon turned around and searched for the girl, and when he could find no trace his heart sank a little. But still he carried on with the mission for the night and ended up with a standing invitation to visit one of the presented girls.

"And at the end of the night, the reward," Stefan declared. He dropped the key on Damon's palm. Damon watched in amusement as Stefan made his way up the staircase and at the top was joined by a young woman.

Damon slid the key into the lock of his room and pushed the door open. To his surprise, the room was filled by a scent, a fragrance, that felt warm and inviting. He saw the shadowed figure on the bed. He reached behind him and lit the room.

"I hope I didn't scare you," she said. He was fascinated by the way that her lips moved. From afar they did not seem so full. Her voice—he never even suspected.

"Nothing scares me." He took off his tie. "What are you doing here, Miss Waldorf?"

"I saw you staring at me," was her easy answer.

His eyebrows rose. "Plenty of men must stare at you. Do you make it a habit to show up in their rooms?"

She stood. "There are very few men who I want to see up close." She walked over to him and looked at him. She smiled at what she saw, and his chest expanded just a little with pride. "You are uncomfortable."

He saw how her blood pumping as he stared at the hollow of her throat. She smelled wonderful, her fragrance was pure. He took a deep breath. "I met your fiancé tonight," he said. "You are playing with fire, Miss Waldorf."

"No, I am living my life to the fullest," she said. She had such dark brown eyes, and even clear as she looked up at him he saw dark gloom there. "You cannot pass a day and end it to say that you wished you had done one thing you did not."

When a being had an eternity the way he did, the days and nights could pass unremarkably by. But her eyes told him no, and that he would far better enjoy forever if he lived it like tomorrow would never come. "And what is it that would make today complete, Miss Waldorf?" he asked breathlessly.

She stepped closer to him, then closer still, until they were pressed together. "I saw you, and I wanted you," she confessed, so easily, so breathtakingly honest. And there was no guile on her face. "And I think, Mr Salvatore, so I would not regret today, I must have you."

Bold, like Katherine, he thought.

And even then he could not help but tremble a tad when her fingertips played upon the curls at his nape. When she pulled him down towards her and he stared into her dark eyes, he realized. Honest, unlike everyone he ever knew. And then he saw it spark in her eyes, something he had never seen before, not towards him.

Adoration. In those eyes he was second to none.

"You are beautiful," she breathed in delight. "I might love you just a little, if only for your eyes."

"Miss Waldorf," he said softly before their lips touched.

And they kissed, gently, exploring. His lips trailed to her neck and he waited for the uncontrollable urge to feed. Instead he nipped, suckled until he marked her, but he did not rip her skin. His fingers pushed down the shoulder of her skin and he laved at the curved of her bone. "Mr Salvatore," she gasped, "I think tonight you can call me Blair."

**2010**

Chuck barely spoke to her now. Just a few months ago she thought it was impossible to move on from someone who was undoubtedly the love of her life. She had given more to him than she had ever thought it possible to give to another person, and belatedly she realized that it was her biggest mistake. Now he was there, some figure that hung about. Chuck, who at many times she could not stand not touching, who many times was all her world revolved around, now stood at the sidelines watching her.

How epically tragic epic love ended, she thought. And there could be nothing more epic that the inevitability that they should not be together. Not when they brought out the very worst of each other.

It had been fine when they were younger, exhausting now that they were older.

But still, she thought, he hung around.

"Are you okay?" he asked her quietly when she joined the three at the breakfast table laden with food she was sure he did not bother to run out for. The chauffeur's retreating back proved it when she doubted it for a moment. And then, without another word, he poured her a glass of orange juice and handed it to her. Like he was still taking care of her. Like he still needed to. Little caring moments that though sweet compared and failed miserably to the million sacrifices she made and threw about by the act of sleeping with Jenny Humphrey.

"I'm fine," she replied, refusing to let him take her down once more into that abyss where nothing mattered except for the fact that he loved her and even worse, that she loved him.

She wondered what answer he would consider enough to install guards she did not want in her own building. She knew already that Chuck would have her followed because he thought it was best. Even though he would not admit to his own misgivings, he was going to keep her safe because it was the most that he could do for her. It was a pity.

Her dreams were vivid still, and Blair pulled the turtleneck to fit it snugly, because when she woke her surreal dreams translated to the mark of a stranger's mouth on her skin.

Manhattan. 1883. The Waldorfs were already here then, and it was an eerie coincidence she could not deny. Her father had been proud of the heritage his family had left behind, and Blair wondered how much of Harold's stories she had subconsciously stored for the inventions that now ran amuck in her brain. Disorganized in her head so much that she found a way to place her stalker into the mix.

"Manhattan," she heard him whisper in her ear. "And then you'll see."

Harold had loaned the family pieces and other historical mementos to the museum. If there was ever anything that she needed to know, to feed this silliness in her head, she would find it there.

It was difficult to rid herself of an overly concerned group of friends. Then again, Serena had her mother and a life of her own, and an ever growing desire to stay away from Nate's judgment of her own faulty actions. And Chuck—well, Chuck still pretended in his own little world.

"A trip to the museum," she had declared to Nate, because she needed to live her life undefeated by ghostly intruders. To her surprise, although it should not have been, Nate had agreed to accompany her.

It took hours as she poured through every bit of memorabilia from the Waldorfs, and even then she came up empty. The curator made her way to them after recognizing her and asked, "Miss Waldorf, may I help you?"

"I thought there would be more," she said, her heart sinking at the dirth of information.

"More," Nate repeated in disbelief. "It's a roomful of everything Waldorf."

"You're looking for something in particular," offered the curator. "Maybe from a specific period?"

And she answered quickly, too quickly that Nate looked at her in surprise. "1883."

"Specific indeed," said the curator, "and helpful. We have a ledger of your family's contributions, and very little of them from around that period." And then the woman narrowed her eyes, remembering something vital. Blair held her breath. The curator walked towards her desk and typed furiously on her laptop, then looked up at Blair. "I remember seeing something oddly familiar, and I realized they were on loan for a few days before the donor pulled the collection. There were several pieces from the 1880s."

That caught her attention. "Pulled."

"It had very much to do with a family scandal." The curator shrugged. "You know how protective the Manhattan elite is of the family secrets."

Nate stepped forward and asked, "Who pulled the collection?" He turned to Blair and said, "If you're really curious and it was your father who pulled it then we can call him to find out where he kept the pieces."

"Well as it happens, I have a file right here." They waited a few seconds before the woman looked up and declared, "William Vanderbilt."

Blair blinked, then repeated. "Vanderbilt."

"Grandfather," Nate said needlessly. "The Vanderbilts have a collection of Waldorf pieces from the 19th century," he said, mulling over the words. "Why?"

The curator smiled brightly, and said, "This is what I love about old heirlooms and secret collections. There is always a scandal hiding in the corner."

"Did they say why they pulled the collection, or what was in it?"

The woman shook her head, then said, "Unfortunately the records have been sealed."

Blair looked up at Nate, then asked, "Your grandfather probably hates me because I didn't do such a good job convincing you to attend Yale."

Nate nodded. "That and your rather spectacularly drunken performance when he threw a party."

Blair winced. "Nate, I want to see what you have."

"You didn't have to ask." Nate took his phone from his pocket. "Grandfather's in Asia scouting for projects for Tripp. And I think I can wrangle a key to that wing."

The curator shut her laptop and smiled. "I know this is a big favor," she started.

"You want to see the collection," Blair surmised.

The curator nodded emphatically. "It would mean the world. The Waldorf collection that William Vanderbilt thought too scandalous to keep on display, sealed records, a hundred twenty year old mystery. Please. It would be my honor."

"You were helpful," Nate said.

"Welcome aboard," Blair answered. The curator let out a breath of relief. She extended a hand and said, "Blair Waldorf."

"I know," the curator replied. "And Nate Archibald. I have to confess, the moment I recognized you I just knew this would be one of the most exciting days of my life." The woman shook Blair's hand and replied, "I'm Katherine Pierce. And Miss Waldorf, thank you for this opportunity. I have been waiting for this for—a century!"

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

**A few months ago**

Damon tipped the glass of warmed blood to his lips as he waited for his brother to arrive. All through the years he had cursed his brother's presence, but relished every instance he could make Stefan's existence a living hell. At times, very few times, Damon would look at his brother, with whom he had spend just about every moment since Stefan's own birth, and wondered if a hundred years was not enough to forgive him for the sin that was hardly a sin at all.

Katherine loved him. She loved Stefan more than she loved Damon. When Damon was rationale, he could accept that Stefan was not at fault.

But Damon had heard the shift in Stefan's tone. Even over the phone, Damon could almost see that flash of an expression on his brother's face.

Whatever it was that happened in 1883, in Manhattan, Stefan was involved. And whether it was Stefan at fault for what had gone down, or if he were to blame for the fact that Damon remembered nothing—Damon only wished he had been meaner, more violent, more cruel.

He glanced down at his hand, then curled it into a fist. He imagined the thickness, recalled the weight. He spread out his hand within an instant when he felt the phantom warmth of blood spilling onto his skin.

"I came as soon as I could."

Damon looked up and saw his brother stepping into the darkened room. When Stefan walked in and sat across from his seat, Damon nodded towards the bottle. He had painstakingly poured blood from a bag to an old wine bottle. Stefan shook his head, then cleared his throat. "Unless what you have in mind is a fight, or a physical confrontation, then I don't need to drink."

At that, Damon's brow arched. "Do you think this will lead to violence?"

Stefan leaned down and rested his elbows on his knees. He clasped his hands together and asked, "How much do you remember?"

"Just tell me what you know," he demanded. Again, Damon looked down at his right hand, felt an uncontrollable urge and felt himself turn.

"You feel her blood."

He snarled when he looked up at Stefan. He cut in, "Her?" When Stefan hesitated, Damon said, "Tell me. Whose blood, Stefan?" And why the hell would it matter. He had fed on many, killed many. But the feel of the warm blood ghost-like on his skin hung over him.

"I can't. I swore I would never talk about it again. It's for your own good."

"Whoever it is, Stefan, Katherine is coming after her." He remembered the face in his dream, that strange unfamiliar face, that voice and the way she said his name, the look in her eyes when his face was reflected there.

"After her," Stefan repeated, the trace of disbelief strong in his voice.

"I couldn't care less," he lied. His heart—or where it used to be when it was not the dry, useless husk—constricted at the thought.

"Blair Waldorf died," Stefan emphasized. Damon grasped at the name, thrown easily to the air, clutched it tightly to his memory. That she had died was not something to consider. Many people died before and returned with a vengeance. He did not know why it mattered to Stefan, who continued, "I saw her die with my own eyes."

"If she's supposed to be dead, Stefan, then someone screwed up. And Katherine has some grudge."

"Blair's alive," Stefan concluded.

"Seems like it," Stefan said somberly. "Damon—"

"Who's Blair Waldorf, Stefan? Why can I remember every kill—" felt anything or not, there was little remorse for most of them—"and I can't remember her?"

"It was a long time ago, and you asked to forget."

It was a show of weakness, one that Damon could not believe he would reveal to his own brother. Asking to forget was admitting incapability. There was nothing in heaven or hell that would make him so weak that he would rather forget, not when he could, at his choice, feel nothing at all.

**2010**

Even without Dorota, Blair found that she needed to leave often enough that she had become quite the efficient organizer herself. She packed her bag neatly and put in nice short rows an organized kit for her toilette. It was not as if the Vanderbilt mansion would not have everything she needed, but a girl needed to be prepared and smell the way she always smelled. She would break out if she used some of the guest facial wash available in William Vanderbilt's estate.

She had to forego the towels of course. Even as a child she could always find anything in the Vanderbilt manor. Once, when she was twelve there happened to be an incident in the Vanderbilt mansion and William Vanderbilt used to recall it as Blair Waldorf getting lost. William Vanderbilt, with Nate following close behind him, found her wandering, he had asked her for what she had been searching for.

"The piano is in the salon, Blair," the old man reminded her.

Nate had nodded and said, "Remember Mrs Esperson played it at tea."

But Blair had taken Nate's hand and led grandfather and boy to the musty wing and straight through grand doors that opened to a ballroom. Large white tarps covered humongous furniture. There, Blair had let go of Nate's hand and proceeded to the centerpiece and pushed up the tarp, uncovering for the two the ivory keys that still trilled and chimed and vibrated with the purest keys.

"How did you know that was here?" William Vanderbilt had asked, because the room had only been inventoried and scheduled for restoral.

But it was no puzzle, no amazing discovery that had been made, Blair thought. She had always known every nook and cranny, every hidden door and revolving bookcase that Vanderbilt mansion had to offer. Instinct, she said. But for all intents and purposes, whenever she was in the Vanderbilt mansion, it only felt right that she was meant to be a Vanderbilt—where everything was familiar, where the air was haunting, where the lights were romantic.

Little girl dreams became young women's fantasies.

Three of them drove to the Vanderbilt estate the next afternoon. They rode in Nate's towncar, and Blair forcefully kept herself awake on the way. Beside her Nate's head was leaned back to rest. His sunglasses were on, and even through the tint Blair could tell that Nate had already fallen asleep. Beside her Katherine grinned and patted her knee. The woman held a notebook tightly in her hand.

"Do you want get some sleep?" Katherine asked. "I'll wake you up when we get there," she offered.

Blair shook her head. "I'm too excited to fall asleep." She did not need to tell the woman beside her, of course, that every time she closed her eyes she saw his looking at her, with those brilliant, vibrant, haunting ones. Those eyes had been spectacular in that moment right before he killed her. You do not tell a stranger that a man who miraculously vanished and appeared at will was haunting you in life and in your dreams. "What is that?" Blair asked, shifting the conversation to Katherine.

Katherine flushed, then said, "A list." She amended, "A wishlist. These are what I hope to find when we get to the Vanderbilt collection."

Blair extended her hand and asked, "May I see it?"

Katherine smiled, appeared to hesitate for a moment, then nodded. She gave the notebook to Blair. Blair flipped it open and saw pictures of various pieces of jewelry and a handwritten list of others. Blair stopped to touch the illustration of a familiar engagement ring. "Gorgeous, isn't it? It's the ring that—"

"I wore that," Blair said out loud. When Katherine looked surprised, she explained, "When we were younger, Nate and I were going to be engaged. To push us in the right direction our parents had him give me that ring." Blair shook her head. "You won't find that ring at the estate. It's in Nate's mother's jewelry box."

"I would love to see it."

Blair grinned. "Then you're heading in the wrong direction. The ring is likely in the Hamptons."

"But it's real."

"Of course it's real. It's the Vanderbilts. Ridiculous over-the-top diamonds are probably their bedazzles," Blair pointed out. Blair flipped through the notebook curiously. "This piano was still there a few years ago," she murmured. The pictures seemed too familiar, and Blair had never actually seen many of them in her visits to the estate. "These aren't too different from any other collection they show from old families. I don't get the rationale in pulling them out."

Katherine leaned over beside Blair, and Blair watched as Katherine flipped through the notebook untils he reached the very last page with content. There, Blair saw a cardboard photograph of a bed. For some reason, the air conditioner seemed too strong now because her entire body was covered in chills. She glanced up at Katherine, who looked at her intently with a thin smile on her face. "Have you seen this bed?"

"No," she whispered. Blair closed her eyes to ward off her distress, and instantly was overwhelmed by the feeling that the soft coverlet surrounded her, that her head was heavy on the down pillow. She was in the bed and she could not get up. She gasped for air and there was a noisy sucking sound and she could not satisfy her need.

"Blair, Blair, open your eyes."

And when she did it was that man above her, running bloodstained fingers through his hair. "Damon," she cried, but it was a mere choking sound.

He wiped the back of his hand under his nose and she saw her blood streak across his face. "I'm sorry."

His face faded slowly into black.

"Blair?" repeated a woman's voice.

Blair opened her eyes and she saw Katherine's look of concern. Blair gasped for breath. "What's so special about that bed?" she asked.

Katherine's brows furrowed. She glanced at Nate, who was still sleeping. Then she told Blair, "That bed is the reason for all the scandal about this collection. That was supposed to be the marriage bed of the Vanderbilt heir and his fiancé."

"And," Blair prompted.

"According to the scandal—which was kept in the strictest confidence by many of their contemporaries—that is where the Vanderbilt heir killed his bride," Katherine shared. "A knife—straight through her gut. The young woman wanted to break off her engagement and the Vanderbilt heir murdered her in cold blood."

"What does that have to do with my family?" she asked. "Why is the Waldorf collection in their possession?"

"Because, Blair, you are not the first Waldorf to have been contracted to marry a Vanderbilt." Katherine turned the page. "This is a portrait that they should rightfully return to your family, after that entire scandal. It's worth half a million dollars at auction, maybe more than two million once the full story is leaked." Blair found herself looking at the picture of the painting. "The Vanderbilt bride in 1883. Blair Waldorf."

Blair shut the notebook and dropped it on Katherine's lap. "You're after the money."

"Please," Katherine said. "I am after the truth, and single piece that I suspect is there."

"We should turn around," Blair said half-heartedly. "I don't want to have anything to do with your digging up some old scandals that will ruin a good family."

"Blair Waldorf kept a journal, you know. If you don't believe what I told you, then it's more reason for us to get there and find out for ourselves what happened, and why she was found in that bed dead over blood-soaked sheets."

It took a few minutes, but soon Nate woke up and removed his sunglasses. He nodded at the two and said, "Ladies."

Immediately Katherine gave a quick smile and said, "Rise and shine, Mr Archibald."

Nate grinned. He checked his phone and said, "The caretaker has already opened up the wing. Was there anything in particular that you wanted to see?"

Katherine turned to Blair, her eyebrows raised expectantly. Blair nodded. "I want to see the bed, four poster and mahogany, with carved peacocks on the headboard."

"All right," Nate answered.

Katherine nodded in approval.

Then, Blair said, "And Katherine changed her mind. When we pass by a bus stop, we need to let her off. It sounds like there's an emergency at the museum, right, Katherine?"

Katherine's eyes narrowed at Blair, then she forced a smile and nodded. "I'm sure our paths will cross again, and then you can tell me all about the trip."

**1883**

The scents were overwhelming. The sun flowed through the tiny slits between the curtains. Damon narrowed his eyes, grateful at least for the ring that kept his skin warm instead of burning at the exposure to the sun. The body he held in his arms was soft and pliant and the scent of blood almost drove him insane. He pressed his lips on his nape. He felt the furious pounding of her heart, the flow of her blood in her veins.

He heard her soft murmur as she woke, and Damon sat up as she turned to lie on her back. He had discarded every last piece of their clothing through the night. He grinned when he saw her bare like the day she was born. He leaned down and kissed the hollow at the base of her throat, then made his way down to her breast. Blair buried her fingers in his hair.

The scent was powerful and heady and he fought off the animal inside of him as he liked a trail to her navel. Her hips bucked up and Damon grasped her thighs. They fell open gently and Damon positioned himself between them and kissed his way down.

"Damon!" she gasped.

He pressed a kiss through the nest of dark curls and looked up at her. He smiled at her nervousness, then looked down at the blood staining her inner thighs. He was going to turn, he knew it. But she had cried so utterly deliciously the night before, and powered through her pain with a charming determination, grabbing his arms and hiking her legs even higher still. It was playing with fire, but knowing she deserved something more, Damon slowly laid his lips on the bloodstain and breathed deep.

There was a little bit of himself there, but the taste and flavor was most robust of her, of Blair, a taste that equated to the fragrance that he would remember. This was her, sweet and salty and bitter and sour and everything in between. This must be how the universe tasted.

He climbed up her body and saw her tears rolling down her temples. He glanced at himself in the mirror and to his surprise, even with the blood on his tongue he did not change. He grasped her cheeks until she looked at him and then, he said, slowly, intentionally, clearly, "I think I love you."

And she smiled, grasping at his shoulders. "Do you even know what that means, Damon?"

"This," he said, thrusting his hips and pushing his entire length into her channel, which still held traces of the night before. This was love, he thought, when he could take her and lie with her, taste her and smell her as close as this without turning into something other than human. This was love, without compulsion, without the type of selfishness he had possessed with Katherine. This, with his lips on her neck and her heart pounding so close, without turning—this was love.

She was tight, unused to him still. Every time he entered her and pushed deeper he heard her gasp and felt her grasp tighten. All around him her scent enveloped them. She was different; this was different. She exploded around him into tight vise-like gripping motions. Damon laid his forehead on her shoulder when he came.

She curled with her head pillowed on his chest. Damon felt her grow heavy when she fell asleep over him. He closed his eyes and, even though he did not need it, slept with her.

Blair awoke with a start, and she looked at his face. He opened his eyes, waking as easily as deciding to sleep. The look of terror in his eyes broke his eyes.

"I woke up, and I couldn't feel your heartbeat." His being had terrified her, he thought, but then she said, "I thought I'd lost you."

He shook his head. Tonight, he would tell her. That was only right if he was going to spend as long as he could with her. "I'm here," he said. "But right now, I need to leave. I'll be back."

She nodded, her hair falling over her face. Damon reached up and pushed it behind her ear. He stood and searched for his pants. "Where are you going?" she asked.

The entire night there was no mention of the other man, but still his voice was cautious when he answered, "To meet your fiancé. It appears that he has some need of my service." It was another challenge, of course, to become a doctor in the eyes of this new community. Stefan could not have picked a more difficult lie. "Do you know why?"

"Maybe." She rose from the bed wrapped in a sheet and then pulled him for a kiss. Damon kissed back and they tumbled back on the bed.

Damon grinned. "If this is life with you, I won't do Vanderbilt any favors." She lay underneath him with her hair a dark halo around her head. He dropped a kiss on her lips. "We are too good to lose."

She laid her palm on his chest. "I know."

"I want us to be together forever," he said.

"Of course."

His heart swelled. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you." The rest of his life—eternity—perhaps there was still be blessing that came with Katherine's curse, and that Katherine's death did not end it all.

He waited for her answer, nervous in a way he had never been before. Until, of course, she answered, "So do I."

And then, he found the key to spending eternity sane.

He kissed her when he reluctantly tore himself away. Damon made his way out the corridor and met Stefan on the way to the office. His step was light and he nodded to his brother, even greeted him a good morning, something he had not done since they were both human.

Stefan's eyes widened. He grinned at the sight of his brother. "You bastard," Stefan exclaimed. He stepped close to his brother and sniffed. "The Waldorf girl?" And Damon refused to look his brother in the eye. Stefan shook his head. "You, my brother, are a masochist. I don't know why I never suspected it before, but you are certainly a masochist."

"Am I?" Damon asked. "She agreed to spend the rest of her life with me."

"So did Katherine," Stefan reminded.

"The difference is that Blair wants only me."

The two made their way to the office and Vanderbilt stood. There was a look of gratitude on his face that rendered Damon with a tinge of discomfort. But he would not feel guilty, nor would he back away. He took Vanderbilt's proffered hand and shook it.

Stefan took a seat when Vanderbilt gestured towards it. Damon slowly sank into his seat.

"You do not know how long I have searched for a specialist, and I have tried every one in Manhattan." Vanderbilt sat and looked towards Damon. "I am at the end of my rope. I will try anything—even young doctors still unproven, with your European learning you may just have a strange idea or two."

"Are you ill?" And Damon was almost ashamed that he relished the thought of it.

"No," was the answer, dashing a little of Damon's hope. "No. It's my fiancé."

Damon felt his brother's eyes rest on him. But he refused to look at Stefan. Not while his head whirled with the implications.

"Does she know?" It was Stefan who asked, because it was only Stefan who had the capability to do so.

"She does," was the quiet response.

What followed was the exact script that would have been expected, and the response was the same as what it should have been. Damon promised to do what he could and Vanderbilt swore to pay him the heaven and earth if he could heal his fiancé.

Stefan reached for him, but Damon walked out of the office ahead of his brother. He opened the door and looked up towards the staircase. He saw Blair standing at the top flight, watching him, waiting. She pushed her hair back and off her shoulders, then she raised her chin. She was not tentative, and it seemed that now she dared him to do what he will.

"Walk away, Damon," came Stefan's advice into his ear. "You do not need another chance to have your heart ripped out of your chest."

Instead, Damon stepped forward. He ran up the steps until he reached her.

Despite her bravado, Blair appeared relieved to have him standing before her. "You know," she said.

"You could have told me."

"And never have last night?" She shook her head. "Not for anything in the world."

He cupped her face and kissed her on the lips. "I will find a way," he promised her. "You are not going to die. You will fulfill your promise."

"I promised to be with you until the day I die." She played with his ruffled collar. "Doctor, that may just happen yet."

Damon took her hand and gripped it tightly, then looked back down to where his brother stood. The concern and the disapproval clear on his face.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

Present day

"You're not with her," came the obvious statement, uttered by his obvious brother, to point out the obvious. Damon snorted and glared at Stefan as the younger Salvatore walked towards him. "You left Mystic Falls so suddenly, without a word even to Elena."

Because really, Damon hardly left Elena out of his plans. At least not until he started to remember.

"I would have thought you'd have found her by now."

Damon gritted his teeth, then stressed, "I don't care."

"Katherine—"

"Let Katherine have her."

Stefan shook his head, and when his brother lips curved into that knowing, understanding smile, Damon wished he could slam his fist into Stefan's mouth. But he was too tired to even commit violence. And then Stefan declared, "I would believe that if I only knew the brother I had after you had forgotten her."

"That's who I am," Damon snarled.

"Not all of you," answered Stefan. And then, with a hint of reluctance, Stefan placed a hand on Damon's shoulder. "But I remember you, Damon. I remember who you were before you went to war. I remember who you were that year with Blair."

Damon glanced at his brother. "That year was erased. That isn't who I am. Don't you get it? I'm every one I killed since I let Katherine turn me into this."

"But I was there, Damon. I knew the brother I could have, knew the man you were capable of becoming."

"It was unnatural," he spat. Damon remembered little of it, from the memories that visited him at night. And right there when he was in the dream it felt so right. Not—at least—the moment he woke up.

"Everything we do that's worth staying for is unnatural."

And that was what he thought, so despite his better judgment he came to her. Only to find the expression he relished most in the eyes of others, but not from her. "She's afraid of me," he confessed.

"That's because she doesn't remember," Stefan told him. And then, came the question, "What did you first remember, Damon?"

But that he was unwilling to answer. But Stefan knew it all. That was what he said. He had been there. He had watched it all. But Stefan was not part of that first memory. If everything that Stefan claimed was true, then perhaps in that he would oppose. "Why do you need to know?"

"Because if that is what you remember, then that must be the most intense memory. And that must be what she remembers about you." Damon refused to answer, and then Stefan offered, "Was it the moment she died?"

Damon narrowed his eyes. Stefan had always been a wimp, even using gentle words for something that was natural to them. But Damon could still feel the rough texture of the wood that he had gripped and thrust into her, heard the choking gasp that followed, felt the blood stain his hands. He steeled himself, then admitted, "When I killed her."

Meanwhile, Nate Archibald's towncar rolled to the stop over the paved driveway leading up to the grand Vanderbilt estate. It was already dark out and Blair was the one who shook Nate awake. She stepped out of the car and looked up at the darkened windows. The breeze blew a chill against her skin. She had been to the estate dozens of times since they were children, but only then did Blair notice the number of windows and rooms, the vastness of the place.

And then, for the first time, she felt her own gaze pulled to particular areas of the estate she had not before paid close attention to. Her eyes drifted to the left, where French doors led to a secluded marble statue garden. It was there that she and Nate first experimented a kiss when they were younger, but oddly enough another kiss teased at the periphery of her memory—one kiss not so young, not so innocent, not so delightfully happy.

Her lips parted when she felt and heard the labored breathing, imagined warm lips on her temple.

"Blair."

She started and looked up at Nate, who rubbed sleep from his eyes and reached out a hand.

She blinked at him and said softly, "Something happened here."

Nate sighed. "I'm sure a lot happened here. It's a political family," came the dry joke. "But sleeping in the towncar isn't as relaxing as one would think. Let's get some sleep."

He led her to one of the guestrooms, and Blair was infinitely grateful that they were strong enough to remain friends despite the way that their relationship ended over and over. After all, she and Chuck were never this friendly when they were broken up. They were more adversaries. "Are you sure you're alright with this, Nate?" she asked when they stopped outside the guestroom door.

"You and I are mature adults," he said to her. And then he shrugged, "Or we weren't as in love as we used to think we were."

"We're not mature," she answered, giving her opinion on the choices presented.

She closed the door and said goodbye. Blair crawled into the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She willed for sleep to come. Within moments she felt her collar constricting around her neck. She sat up and unbuttoned the top few buttons and lay back down again. Still, sleep would not arrive. Blair rose and opened her bag, then drew out the small travel bag she carried with her favorite night gown.

While other girls carried only the bare necessities, Blair knew she hung with people with enough resources that she only ever needed the most personal belongings. She faced the full length mirror as she removed her clothes and changed into her night gown. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, and jumped when she saw movement behind her. She whirled around and found the room empty.

She gasped in disbelief. Slowly, carefully, she turned back around and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked behind her in the reflection. Her eyes widened when he saw a young man stumble into the room. His dark blonde hair half-covered his face. He leaned back against the door and sobbed aloud, raised his hands. Blair watched in horror as he looked at his hands and arms drenched in blood.

"Vanderbilt!" came the muffled call from the other side of the door.

She felt as though she were right there and then. Slowly, she turned around, half-afraid that like earlier the vision would be gone. But she stood there and saw the young man slide down onto the floor, staring at the blood in disbelief.

"Vanderbilt, open the door!" came the same voice, the same cry. Vaguely she recognized it as the voice of the stranger in her room. "Open this or I swear to heaven I will break it down." It was a threat, and it sounded very real to her.

Damon, she thought. And he would do it. He could do it.

And to her surprise, the man stood and pulled the door open. Blair watched in morbid fascination as Damon's furious face darkened more, and mottled, darkened vessels bulged under his eyes. She waited, because for sure he seemed capable of killing this man, this Vanderbilt. But then, the face changed and Damon was again that man in her bedroom. Quietly, firmly, purposefully, he said, "It was the right thing to do."

It was a split second. Damon turned and walked away almost immediately after. But there was a split second where she saw the look in his eyes and she understood the universe. The door closed behind Damon, and the room faded back into the modern luxury of its décor. Blair walked towards the closed door and opened it, almost as if she would still be able to see his figure fading away. She followed by instinct until she was walking aimlessly through the corridors, down the staircase and finally, Blair saw the dim light outside through the glass French doors.

She walked closer and closer until she could see the figure standing outside, watching her.

"Damon," she whispered.

She opened the doors and the breeze blew in. She did not mind the cold, even in her nightgown. It was warm where he was, she knew. Blair walked towards him. He walked towards her. He touched her face, his look puzzled. When she tried to speak all that came out was a sob.

"You're back," he said to her. "You're really back."

And despite the name, despite the way ghosts of her memories haunted her in her dreams and everywhere she turned, she knew nothing. "Who are you?"

He answered, "You know who I am. That's why you're here."

And she did not know why, but she started crying silently. Undefined feelings overwhelmed her. "You killed me," she whispered, this time unafraid.

He closed his eyes and laid his forehead on hers, just like he did once upon a time, then nodded. "Just like you asked." He swallowed. "And it killed me every damn time I remembered."

"I'm sorry," she apologized.

He breathed her again, muttering an affirmation that the scent was hers only. And she found herself responding and yielding as his mouth moved over hers.

"How is this possible?" was his soft utterance, and she did not even attempt to respond. He held her by her nape and Blair's arms locked at his. She pressed her body up and close to his. His lips moved to her ears and she felt the most pleasant pain when he bit at her lobe.

"Damon, we have to—"

He stopped, gasped her arms and looked up. The sudden loss of his lips left her reeling, and Blair turned to him and saw the calm, calculating expression his face. He then appeared shuttered and his face darkened.

"Damon—"

And that was when he looked back down at her and said, "Someone's here."

Blair's heart raced. She and Nate were the only ones that the caretaker expected. Nate already told her that everyone else in the family was otherwise occupied. And then she felt his palm rest over her heart.

"There's no need to be nervous, Blair. I'm right here," he assured her.

And then finally she heard the steps move closer and closer. The light out in the corridor turned on. Two figures stopped just outside. Blair breathed in relief when one of the new arrivals turned and turned. "It's just him," she whispered. Her heart skipped a beat when the other looked towards them.

Damon stepped in front of her at once.

"You didn't think you could leave me out of the great discovery, did you, Blair?" came the oozing, charming voice.

"Katherine," Damon said in a clipped voice.

"Damon, darling." Katherine's face broke into a big smile. "Look who I found!"

Damon's hand closed around hers. And then he acknowledged, "Tripp Vanderbilt."

"That's it?" Katherine exclaimed in disappointed. "That's how you greet him? I would have expected something warmer. I mean, how long has it been?" Katherine placed a hand on her hip. "Oh how could I have forgotten? It's been more than one hundred and twenty years."

Blair turned to Tripp Vanderbilt, who shook his head and chuckled. "Your friend is amusing," he said to Blair. "Glad I ran into her. Imagine the coincidence. Nate still asleep?"

Blair glanced up at Damon first, whose eyes narrowed as he regarded Tripp. "Why don't we check?"

Damon smirked, "Still the same old Katherine. Still need compulsion to get what you want."

Katherine's dark brows rose. "I never needed to compel you," she pointed out. "I bet Miss Waldorf doesn't know that."

Damon's jaw tightened. "Not here, Katherine. Not now."

Blair walked past Katherine, and she felt the chill of the other woman's gaze when she got closer. "Not now," Katherine agreed. "Right now there's something I need from this place." Katherine looked around. "Gorgeous. And to think all this could have been yours if you kept away from the bad influence," she pronounced, jerking her head towards Damon.

Blair glanced towards Damon, noticed his shoulders were not as raised as they were, saw his stance not as straight. This woman—Katherine—was powerful. She held too much power over him. She may not understand the memories or the references to the past, but she knew enough about bitches. And she knew enough about men who loved bitches. She stopped right in front of Katherine, and said, "What's all this compared to a day with someone I loved and who loved me back?"

"He loved me first."

She wondered when the mysteries boiled down to something that seemed eerily like high school drama.

"Last I checked," Blair challenged, "Damon was looking for me and you were chasing after us. Who's after you?"

Katherine's eyes narrowed. She glared at Damon. "Get her the hell out of my face or I'll rip her heart out."

Blair looked back at Damon, who regarded her with his lips curved in gentle amusement. She grabbed Tripp's arm and led him away. As they walked, Tripp shook his head. They climbed up the stairs and Tripp blinked.

"Blair Waldorf," he said in recognition. He looked around and said in realization, "I'm in grandfather's estate."

"You are," she acknowledged.

"Why?" he said.

Blair exhaled. "Tripp Vanderbilt, don't tell me you're high," she said lightly. "It doesn't matter. I won't tell anyone. Go and get some sleep."

Tripp made his way up alone, and Blair raced her way back down. Around her, the corridor slowly faded into gray, until the décor faded into something else entirely—something even more familiar. Blair whispered, "No. Not yet."

And then she found herself walking towards the French doors. She saw her reflection in the mirror, and saw the pale, dry lips, the sick hue of her skin. Blair stopped and looked down at herself. She was gone, almost. She turned to the garden and saw Damon, and everything was better. Damon was in a heated argument with his brother.

She walked towards them and opened the doors, then heard the words.

"Nothing is helping her. Not us, not the dozens of doctors they've already hired."

"Then you know what to do," Stefan stated.

She gasped, and was caught in frozen horror as Damon wiped blood from his mouth. She saw a foot thrust out from behind a marble archer.

"I will not turn her," Damon muttered.

"Then you will always be miserable," Stefan argued. "I wanted to spend the rest of our lives together, with all our adventures." Instead, after Katherine's death, Damon had been miserable and spent every damn day making Stefan's life miserable as well. "This can make you happy."

"I love her. You don't curse someone you love."

"Even if it means that you will get everything you wanted? She will be with you forever."

She pulled open the doors and stepped outside, allowed the breeze to blow into her face. Stefan looked up. Damon wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Blair walked towards him and he cringed when she touched his face. He forced his face to turn back, but failed miserably in the short time since he fed. Her eyes were full when she asked, "This is what you are?"

"No," he answered, and he could feel the desperation in his voice. "What I am is who I am when I'm with you, Blair." All those times they were together, when even in the most intense moments, he remained human. "This is how I survive."

She nodded. He closed his eyes when she laid her lips on his mouth, still stained with a fresh kill. "I want you to let me die," she told him softly, too soft, but enough that his sharp ears caught the request. "I love you, Damon, but I don't want this." He nodded. "If you love me, like you said, you're going to let me die."

And then she felt the world fade back into her reality. Blair looked up and found Damon and Katherine standing before her. She licked her lips, then said, "You're a vampire." Damon nodded. "That's how you're still here. Now why am I?"

tbc


End file.
